All Is Not Forgotten...

Forgive me for this somewhat late addition to the blog. I should have posted this in time for Remembrance Day, so it may appear rather out of place amongst all this festive cheer. Nonetheless, I feel this may be of some interest you those of you who are yet to see any photos of the more cultural aspects on offer in and around the town of Verdun.

I shall begin….
Geographically, Verdun is nestled comfortably within the Meuse ‘département’ in the region of Lorraine. Gastronomically, this region boasts some of France’s finest cuisine, including, of course; the infamous Quiche Lorraine, madeleines de Commercy, Munster cheese, bergamot sweets from Nancy, macaroons, to name but a few examples. In fact, Verdun has earned the title of ‘sugared almond capital of the world’. I really could go on all day about the obesity-inducing cuisine that seems to be just about everywhere I turn…tempting me, calling me.

Yet, Verdun is not only known for its almonds. The Meuse region suffered greatly during the Great War of 1914 – 1918. In fact, the word ‘suffered’ doesn’t really do justice to the sheer impact of the Battles upon the people, the buildings, and the landscape of Meuse. The Battle of Verdun lasted 300 days – from the 21st February until the end of December 1916. The sheer enormity of casualties is appalling - during those 300 days, 162,062 French soldiers and 143,000 German soldiers were killed. Verdun seems to be a national symbol of not only the Great War, but the valour and honour of those who fought for their country.

Culturally, I find it so fascinating that France has made such an effort to preserve its memories of both the 1st and the 2nd World War.
The imprint of the Battle of Verdun seems to be omnipresent in and around the town. The landscape remains in the exact same state it was left after the Battle. In fact, an article I read quite recently descibes the terrain of the battlefields as akin to ‘a cheesegrater’, pockmarked, bearing a slight resemblence to Tellytubby land (I kid you not), as a result of a perpetual fire of shells, bombs and grenades.

It may be sombre, and perhaps a little morbid, but I truly admire France’s efforts to preserve the physical reminders of War, as it proves that the courage and self-sacrifice of so many young men has not been forgotten 91 years on. Verdun stands up tall in its defiance against the brushing-under-the-carpet of the First World War.

Douaumant (sp?) Cemetary is positioned directly opposite the Battlefields, and is perched high upon the hills on the outskirts of Verdun, with spectacular views of the surrounding countryside. Here, the amount of casualties ceases to exist as a number, devoid of any meaning. You can see, simply by opening one’s eyes, the full extent of the battle’s consequences, the penalty paid for bravery and patriotism. This quiet, peaceful place, which once saw hundreds and thousands of young men go to their deaths, aims to provide a kind of catharsis to the grand nemesis which occurred. A calm end to such a catastrophic War.

In her post-WW1 novel ‘Mrs Dalloway’, Virginia Woolf states “Such things happen to everyone. Everyone has friends who were killed in the War”.
This doesn’t mean to say that the personal tragedies as a result of the Great War are any less significant simply because they were experienced on a universal scale within Europe. But rather that because so many brothers, fathers, husbands, lovers, cousins, uncles, and grandfathers were killed, countless lives were touched by tragedy. France’s cemetaries, battle fields and monuments are a mark of respect to those who lost loved ones and to the mass grieving that occurred here.

TRAINS, planes and automobiles....

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”
Confucious

When you’re dragging two ridiculous suitcases and a beackbreakingly heavy rucksack down the steps of the Gare de l’est in Paris you realise that living abroad is not quite the easy ride you thought it would be. Two months ago, I recall the hideous experience of travelling across Paris cumbersome with the luggage from hell. Not only did I think seriously about throwing the lot of it into the Seine, or even selling it for a bit of extra cash (times were hard)…but as I looked down at my red, sore and blistered hands, I realised that the reality of travel is painful! I also wondered why the ‘clever’ architects who design train and metro stations never thought of us poor travellers and our luggage! Why must we travel down one flight of steps just so we can walk several metres before climbing yet another dreaded staircase? In my recent experience of this process, I find that the latter is most difficult…the dragging of a suitcase up each step with all one’s might. Of course, when travelling without luggage one forgets just how hideous the entire experience is. I vowed never to repeat that ordeal again.
Yet, somehow precisely one month later, I found myself subjecting myself to the same torture. In fact, this time may have been worse. I had spent a week at our house in the Limousin with my parents, and was en route back to Verdun, Lorraine. I’d caught the train early in the morning from La Souterraine to Paris Austerlitz. However, my TGV (the fastest train in the world I think?) wasn’t until the evening. In short, I had a day to kill in Paris. Perfect! Well, so I thought until I decided to explore the innerworkings of Paris’ metro system. Don’t ask me why! In hindsight I should have just got a taxi. But, I felt a tremendous sense of achievement once I reached my destination, after eight staircases and much sqeezing through crowds. The moral of this story is…always travel light – your body will thank you for it.

French public transport seems to be extremely efficient. Too efficient. In fact it is a little out of place amongst the chaotic disorganisation that is France. That fateful first train journey through France demonstrates the pedantry of the public transport system here (or perhaps my terrible eyesight). Each SNCF train ticket explicitly states ‘Billet à composter avant l’accès au train’. This means that it is imperative that one stamps their ticket before embarking the train. How I neglected to do this, I do not know. But, as the ticketmaster approached, a wave of panic came over me. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. But, he looked up, confused, and said that my ticket was invalid. I feigned ignorance, with a little distress thrown in for good measure, oh and a token ‘je suis anglaise’, which usually does the trick. Thankfully, I just got a stern warning not a fine! And since then, I’ve always ensured that each ticket is ‘composté’.